Friday, April 16, 2010

In my mind's eye, when I picture Spring, I picture delightful flowers, my perennials emerging. A garden filled with splendor, befitting the diva that I am. I see dinner grilled to start off the season... that lovely look of aggravation between spouses who each thought the other checked the propane tank before loading it all up. Alas, these are not the things that preoccupy me in reality.

In reality, I just see jam-packed Rt 80 from behind the wheel. It's the return of the spring sports schedule. I understand that the coaches are volunteers, and Lord knows I appreciate your time and dedication among all else. But, kind sirs, what's with the times? The times that you hold practice, the times of weekday games. 5 pm? who can get there all the time, at that time? And why are all the rest of these people on the road going home at 4:15? Get out of my way.

We are guilted into thinking a morsel of fast food will cause our kids to drop like flies in 30 seconds. Ok, but how many PB-J sandwiches with yogurt in a tube can they eat for dinner in any given week? Have you ever seen the results of a pothole at 30 miles/hour with a simultaneous yogurt-tube squeeze? It horrifies me to think that I am teaching my children that it is ok to balance a Capri Sun in one hand inserting the straw while steering the car. But when else are they supposed to eat?

Getting the young ones to whatever athletic endeavor they're in, rushing to fields, to schools you didn't know existed~ and special to NJ~ wondering why there's a Super Fund Site trailor next to the training field. By the time you get them there, racing to find cleats that, by God, you'll make fit since they are only one soccer season old, shin guards, lacrosse gloves and helmets, you feel like you've run windsprints yourself.

For moms like me that work outside the home, you know planning to leave work 45 minutes early to get home and make some semblence of a nutritious meal while skimming over spelling and math homework is like planning D-Day all over again. And the memory of me crawling under beds and grasping under couches to locate my 12 yr old's "male protective gear" makes me want to stay at work 20 hrs a day. Or at least not reach for any food, fast or homecooked.